


Some Things Last

by Marsllia



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Light Angst, Slighttttt adult themes, at the moment anyway, nothing too graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2020-12-22 17:42:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21080513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marsllia/pseuds/Marsllia
Summary: It’s unconventional and a little confusing. But it works. Right?





	1. Chapter 1

The electric whirr of the printer rang throughout your head as you stood before it, eyes fixed and out of focus on the wall behind. A light cough behind you jolted you back to the land of the living. You scrambled to collect your paperwork which was no longer warm to the touch, and muttered an apology to the groggy moustached man in pinstripes behind you that you didn’t recognise. You made the short walk from the printing room back to your desk, you checked your watch as you placed down the papers. 10 minutes to go. 

“Any plans for tonight?” Asked Karen, the woman who worked opposite you. She was short, stout and rather rude to be frank, but she had a soft spot for you. You weren’t quite sure as to why, but it felt comforting knowing that there was someone in this godforsaken Grayscale Hell to defend your name against office gossip at the water cooler. Not that you cared all too much, anyway. You pursed your lips into a tight smile and shook your head, knowing all too well what was coming next. “You know, I heard Jefferey in accounting has a twinkle in his eye for you”, she said in a sing-song voice with eyebrows raised. To that, you puffed your cheeks and rolled your eyes dramatically. “Oh come on! I’m bored of you being all alone, in the two years you’ve been here there’s been no one! I’m starting to worry here!”, you giggle at her seemingly serious concern. “I’m not alone Karen, I have lots of people in my life. Besides, Jeffery’s just not my type.”. Karen shrugged in response as she stood to collect her belongings scattered on her desk. As if in perfect formation, people began to push back off their chairs, signalling the end of the day. You powered down your computer and made your way to the elevators. You waved your goodbyes to the bustle of people gathered waiting for the lift to call to you floor, as you always opted to take the stairs. You were only located on the third floor, and it felt good to stretch your legs after an 8 hour day of mostly being seated. 

The walk back to your apartment takes approximately 20 minutes. As you manoeuvre your way through the foot traffic of manhattans sidewalks, your mind wanders through your earlier conversation. You enjoyed your own company, you always had. Besides, you did have someone, not that Karen needed to be aware of that. Well, had someone most of the time anyway. You shook yourself out of your thoughts, reminding yourself that you are perfectly content with your slightly unconventional set up. It worked. It just worked. Before you knew it you were pushing your key through the lock of your front door, blissful relief overtaking your body. You turned to close and lock the door behind you, resting your forehead against the stained pine as you did so. You closed your eyes and exhaled. 

“Rough day?” Rasped a voice from behind you. You smirked to yourself before turning to the source. “You aren’t supposed to be here” you stated flatly, without malice nor surprise. Her face twists in mock offence, “and here I was thinking you’d be happy to see me”. You found yourself giggling, “I never said I wasn’t”. She didn’t respond, she just waited patiently as you took her in. Small cut under her left eye that shouldn’t scar, a much larger gash in her hairline that needs some butterfly stitches, bruising to her right collarbone from what you could see of the exposed skin of her unzipped suit. Overall, nothing you couldn’t handle. 

“Didn’t fancy med bay?”, “and miss taco Tuesday?”. You smiled and averted your gaze, “always have a quip haven’t you? Come on, shower”. She lifted herself off the arm of the sofa she was perched on, and you chose not react to slight limp you noticed she was sporting. You’d learnt the hard way that she doesn’t respond well to your worry, it simply repels her. You’re clutching at straws most of the time as it is, you know when to push her and when to not, and it’s taken you a long time to be able to say that. You test the water of the shower with the tips of your fingers, turning to her with a sideways nod to signal it’s readiness. You go to leave the bathroom, but she grabs your wrist lightly, asking you a question without words. It takes every part of your being to shake your head in response, to which she just shrugs, truly unbothered. In reality you want nothing more but to be stripped bare under the steamy water, caressing and cleaning her battered body, but it’s best to steer clear of anything too domestic, for your own sake. 

You busy yourself in your kitchen, making dinner for the both of you. By the time she emerges from the bathroom, you’ve already dished up and laid the table. You’re pouring some tap water into a jug as she comes up behind you, breath hitching as she does so. She no longer smells of blood, but of your coconut shampoo and it chokes you. She kisses your shoulder, thanking you against your skin before she takes her usual seat. You eat in content silence, you notice she can’t keep her eyes off of you. Before, her gaze would intimidate you - well, would intimidate anyone. Now, there’s a form of comfort in it, unwavering, steadfast. As you finish up eating, you fall into relaxed conversation. You joke about not remembering leaving a key under the mat, she winks and tells you not to worry your pretty little head about that. You daren’t ask her where she’s been, what it was for, if she’s okay. She’s doesn’t come here for that. 

Before long, you find yourself panting, spent, your head on her chest. A pleasant ache between your legs and the taste of her still present on your lips. You angle your head upwards, you look towards her. Her crimson hair sprawled manically across your pillows. She turns towards you and looks at you through hooded eyes. She leans down and places a chaste kiss upon your lips, a stark contrast from her affection mere minutes ago. You go to speak but she shushes you, moving you off her chest and manhandling your body on to its side facing away from her. She moves behind you, her bare form smushed against your back as you wiggle yourself impossibly close. At some point you fall asleep, awaken by the hollow sound of your front door closing. You don’t need to move or reach out beside you to know that she’s left. Your back is cold, and the air is thinner, signalling the absence of her presence within your space. You turn to look at the clock on your bedside table. Half an hour later than she usually left. You have to stop yourself from wondering why, the reality is she probably just overslept. But, imagine if she awoke to your sleeping form, her hands coming to absentmindedly play with your messy bed hair as she battled internally with the knowledge that she has to leave. Enough of that. You knew it didn’t happen. 

Eventually you rise, stretching and grimacing. You take yourself to the shower, eager for the steaming hot water to sooth your muscles. As the water trickles down your body, you notice the purple, scallop shaped marks littering the tender skin of your inner thighs. Had they have not been placed so impersonally, you might be fond of them. All they represent to you is the space that lies between the both of you, all the unsure and the unsaid. It takes you 30 minutes from drying your hair to leave your apartment. The crisp and cold air filtering in your lungs bringing contentment. A new day. Maybe you’ll see her later, maybe you won’t. You silently pray that you don’t. Not how she is now, not so removed, but then would it really be her? You’re train of thought is interrupted by the familiar face of Karen, grumbling mornings to you as she hands you an extra large cup of steaming coffee, no doubt from the kiosk in the lobby. You smile and thank her, relieved to let your mind focus on anything else. Anything but her. 

XXX


	2. Chapter 2

“Oh my god, oh my fucking god”,

This could not be happening. Your knuckles had turned white from your boa like grip on the steering wheel, your body frozen with shock. You just...didn’t see them. How did you not see them? You became aware of a tickling like sensation coming from your brow, as the feeling of liquid running down your cheek blinked you out of your daze. You raised your hand to wipe it, the vibrant red making you sharply intake. Blood. No surprise there really, you did hit your head on that stupid steering wheel impressively hard. You’d been so distracted by the redness covering your fingertips, you hadn’t noticed the leather clad figure move from the tarmac in front of your bonnet and round to the drivers window. The knock that followed jumped the bones out of your skin. You composed yourself and scrambled for the window winder. Once the glass barrier was drawn between you and the helmeted figure, a surprisingly feminine voice came from behind the blacked out visor. 

“Are you okay?”, they asked, eerily calm considering the situation. You were dumbfounded, “I hit you with my car”, you deadpanned. They released a breathy laugh, lifting their visor revealing the greenest eyes you could ever remember seeing. “Yeah, well, these things happen...you seem pretty shaken, can you move the car over to that lay-by over there?”. All you could do was nod your head, blindsided by their nonchalant reaction to being rear-ended off their motorbike by a freaking station wagon. You began to move your vehicle to the lay-by she pointed out mere meters away, as she walked her battered bike to the same spot. You got out of the passengers seat, hands held out in front of you in a pray like manner ready to beg for her forgiveness. “I am so, so so sorry. I-It’s not even my car, I’m just helping my friend move - I don’t even live in Jersey, she just needed someone to follow behind the moving van I -...”, she held a hand out in front of her, stopping your rambling. She then proceeded to remove her helmet, releasing a mane of perfectly curled red hair, colour not dissimilar to blood drying around your finger tips. Your lips move but nothing other than a strangled croak comes out. She smirks at your reaction, cocking one eyebrow smugly. “Not what you were expecting” she asks, goading you. You cleared your throat, “if I’m honest, no”, she just smiles and nods at you before tsking at the sight your friends bonnet. You turn to follow her line of vision and groan at the sight. Easily a months worth of rent of damage. You feel your shoulders fall in defeat as you groan. 

“You say this is your friends car?”, you closed your eyes as you nod in response. “Well, we can’t exactly have you return it to them like this can we”, she asks you for a pen and paper, which you manage to find in the glove compartment of your friends car. She motions for you to spin with her index finger and you oblige willingly. She then bends you forward, using your right shoulder as a surface to scribble on. She pulls off, tearing the paper into a pocket sized piece. She points to the first phone number, “call them now, tell them your location and tell them that Natalie Rushman gave you this number, they’ll have this fixed by the end of the afternoon.” By the time she’d finished giving you the instructions, she’d already mounted her bike, turning on the ignition. Your brows furrowed as you noticed the second phone number written directly underneath. “Wait, what about the second number”, you asked, “that’s for you to call when you’re ready to make it up to me, usually I let someone take me to dinner before they rail me from behind”. With that she winked, flicking her visor down, pulling away in a cloud of black smoke that made you cough. You stood there, eyes blown wide as the words she just uttered so flippantly sunk in. You took out your mobile, dialling the first number, explaining your situation and saying her name. The words felt thick in your mouth, making your lips tingle. 

A harsh slam to your desk made you gasp, the feeling of being forced out of your memories making you breathless. You look up to see Jefferey before you, an amused smirk spread across his face. “Where’d you go, y/n?”, you had to work hard to not grimace at the boom of his deep voice that resonated at the back of your teeth. He was arguably handsome, tall, chestnut hair, bright white teeth fresh from a crest whitening strip advertisement. You should feel flattered, you tell yourself. “Oh no where, I just didn’t get a lot of sleep last night”, you answered with a fake yawn and a stretch. “Well, we can’t have that, pretty girls need their beauty sleep” he said as he turned to strut back off to where he had come from before rudely interrupting your reminiscence. You scrunched your nose up, what kind of a line was that? The ping of your phone caught your attention, you turned it to reveal a text. It was from nat, and your stomach flipped, annoying yourself as it did. 18 months on, and the image of her name across your phone screen still made your heart beat fast. She was thanking you, her usual kind of text. A, “thanks for the food and the fuck” in a not-so-crude way of phrasing, but the meaning remained the same. You rolled your eyes, but still found yourself replying, asking her if she’ll be gracing you with her presence again anytime soon. “I’ll let you know darling”, is all she replies. You know she won’t. As you put your phone back in the drawer to the left you, you look up to see Jeffery watching you from his desk, pen toying between his teeth, eyes filled only with what could be described as lust. Perhaps, you thought to yourself, you’d been spending too much time wrapped up in the idea of her. You shook your head, at your own thoughts. You were a fool if you thought it would be that easy to escape her grip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, apologies for any mistakes as per, this is coming from a veryyyy hungover brain. Let me know what you guys think, and I hope you enjoy!


	3. Chapter 3

The multicoloured flickers of light produced from your TV screen reflected off the white ceiling of your living room. You were in your head again, gazing up at it but eyes out of focus. Sprawled out on your sofa, with your head against the arm rest, nude except from the unzipped hoodie you’d only put on when you began to feel the chill, her weight against your lower half, head resting below your naval with her breath tickling your hip bone. The grating sound of canned laughing filtered in through your daze from whatever crappy sitcom repeats were being played at this hour of the early morning. You felt her chuckle along to something against your stomach, and in your peripheral vision saw her crane her neck in your direction to see if you were watching. Seeing that you weren’t, she simply turned away. You blinked yourself back into focus and looked down towards her, hand coming to play in her tangled locks. You cleared your throat. 

“Did you know, it’s been a year and a half”. She lazily looks up at you, a slight bemused look present on her features. You don’t elaborate, and then she raises her brows in realisation of what you were informing her. “I guess it has, you’re right”. She turns back to the TV. You wait for her to add something, anything, but she doesn’t. “it’s quite a long time, isn’t it”, she just hums in disinterested acknowledgement. “18 months...”, you reiterate, with a click of your tongue. You feel her weight shift as she begins to shimmy up your body until her bare chest is against yours, faces inches away from each other’s. “Want a reward, hmm? is that what you’re angling for? Little present for being such a good girl to me?” she says, lowly with a smirk and a mischievous glint in her eye. You scoff and jab her shoulders, she always teases you about her being your sugar mummy. You’re always quick to inform her that replacing food items from your fridge that she’s eaten without asking doesn’t really compare to say, paying off your student debt, or buying Tiffany Jewellery. “It’s just got me thinking is all”, her eyes blow comically wide, “well stop before your head explodes”. She moves to pepper your face with kisses, you giggle at the sensation. Then there’s a lull, as she pulls herself away from her frantic pecking, emerald eyes coming to meet yours. You’re both still wearing your smiles on your faces like shields of armour from what you both know is about to happen next. 

She breaks the stillness to raise a hand to your cheek as she brushes some loose strands behind your ear, swiping her thumb along your cheekbone as she does so. She’s begging, pleading with you, please don’t do this. But, you’re rilled and geared up to blow. Smile long fallen but teeth gritted and on show. As she delicately caresses you, you’re faced with nothing else but to acknowledge her brazenly contradictory attitude towards you. As soon as that sun rises in a matter of hours you might as well be a stranger to her, she’ll treat you as such, and yet, here she is now with her sweet words and her sweet tongue, fussing you like you were specially made for her. You’ve decided she might be the cruelest, most brilliant person you’ve ever met. 

“I just -“, “stop”. Her hand stills on your face, her warm eyes now cold and sharp, “stop what you’re about to say, we’ve talked about this”. You go to move from underneath her, huffing like a child. You stand overlooking her, suddenly incredibly aware of your nakedness, the new found tension between you two adding to how exposed you feel. “It’s not fair”, is all you can muster, As if you weren’t feeling childish before. “You agreed to this, don’t forget that, I’m not holding you hostage, if you don’t want me here I’ll leave, you just have to say”. If her words were knives you’d my mush on the floor.

“I want you here, but not like this, I want you everywhere at all times, not like It is now, not like I’m some dirty little secret of yours”. Before you can even finish she’s already up and back into her jeans, the sight making your heart wretch. You’re losing, and you’ll always lose. “You’re not a dirty little secret, y/n, don’t insult me. You know why I can’t give you that kind of thing, you know why this is how it is”. Her voice is cold, levelled in a way you could never muster. You move towards her, trailing behind her as she calmly collects her scattered belongings. “But you do give me that kind of thing, except only on your terms! You come in here and explode yourself into my life, take up every inch of my apartment, act like we’re the fucking perfect couple cuddled up on the sofa, an-a- and then you leave...and then what? I’m not allowed to call you, You barley respond to my texts, you refuse to go out and socialise like normal fucking people...you know we’ve never been outside of my apartment together in the daytime...ever?” You search her eyes, but find yourself met with a familiar vacantness. She clears her throat, but says nothing in response to your soul bared speech. You feel the pressured sting of tears behind your eyes, and a bubble of air gathered in your throat. you swallow thickly to keep your composure.

“You agreed to this”, she repeats. You feel your heartbeat in your tongue, the sickening feelings of embarrassment and shame now nestling itself in your stomach. You nod, digesting her determination to remain indifferent to your emotions - as if you needed reminding that she is she, and you are you. “You’re right...I’m sorry, forget that I said anything, everything’s peachy” you mumble and go to move past her towards your bathroom, no longer willing to wait around to see if she’ll leave or if she’ll stay. She grabs your wrist, hard. Stoic eyes meet yours, her lips pursed in a thin line. If you didn’t know any better, you’d claim a slight look of remorse across her features. She leans in, and kisses the corner of your mouth, lingering there before moving away and releasing her grip on your wrist. With that she reaches behind her for the handle of your front door, turning and pushing it open. 

“I’ll call you”, is all she says.


	4. Chapter 4

You toyed anxiously with the tassels of your black suede clutch bag, moving to adjust the fine golden chain it was connected to to a more comfortable position on your shoulder. You were way out of your depth, no idea what you were about to get yourself into. It’s not like you hadn’t dated before, in fact you were quite well versed in that scene - some may say all too comfortable with the concept. I mean, it wasn’t your fault nothing had materialised from your dating escapades in recent times, and needs must. However, your usual way of doing this sort of thing came with you having a basic knowledge of your companion before even meeting them; their likes and dislikes, job, age, how many siblings they have etc. A pro or a con depending on your outlook, but regardless, still the norm for the online dating generation.

This was foreign, you were going in blind, armed only with a name. The perspiration on your palms was beginning to make you self conscious, and the ungodly heat of the subway wasn’t helping. You had one more stop before you would be at yours. You had to actually research the place you were making your way to, which was a first. You were more used to going to generic bars or cafés on first dates, not fancy French restaurants in midtown that you couldn’t pronounce the names of. All you found out was that the interior was decedent and undoubtedly beyond you, the prices were miles above your budget, and booking a reservation for a table would mean going on a months long waiting list. Which, did confuse you considering this was all only planned four days ago, but you didn’t dwell on that. You had much more pressing matters at hand, like focussing on not getting the heels of your black stilettos stuck in the subway grates. You’d opted to wear a red warp dress that you’d had for months and had until now, no excuse to wear it. The material was silk like and the length came to just above the knee, nothing too provocative and showing just the right amount of cleavage in your humbled opinion. You felt comfortable, the dress hugged your figure in a way that meant you wouldn’t be fiddling all night, pulling it into the right position which gave you some level of composure to your outward appearance. What was going on internally was another story. 

The walk from the subway to the restaurant was short, and you were experiencing what could only be described as sheer white-hot panic as you made your way through the revolving doors of the building and up to the maitre des stand. The soft melodies of what you would call lounge music was coming from the restaurant floor, but you’re sure you’d be corrected if you were to say that out loud. To put it curtly, you were fucked. 

“Hello,” you cringed at how your voice cracked from your dry throat as you addressed the Maître D’ , “I’m meant to be meeting a friend here at 8:30”, you explained. “And what was your name?”, “y/n y/l/n”. With that they smiled warmly and began to move from behind the stand, “ah, come right this way Ms. Y/L/N”. You were led rather speedily through the main floor of the restaurant to a secluded corner on the right hand side, next to a smaller bar compared to the main one near the entrance. As you approached what appeared to be your table, your stomach dropped slightly noticing that it was empty. You checked your watch and you were 10 minutes late, just late enough for it to be considered fashionable and not rude. Your chair was pulled out by a waiter who had made his way over as you approached. You took your seat and thanked him as he poured some water in a glass for you. The Maître D’ smiled at you, “Miss Romanoff will be with you shortly”. You returned the smile and nodded, grateful that he left and seemed to take the action as genuine, meaning you were able to mask your absolute horror sufficiently. Who the hell was ‘miss Romanoff’? Before you could even begin to think of your next move which would have no doubt been an escape plan to save yourself the embarrassment of what you were assuming was the mess up if the Maître D’, you felt a presence behind your seated form. Twisting your body in the chair, relief flooded over you. 

There stood the person you were expecting, holding a martini glass in each hand. She stepped towards the table and set down the glasses, one in front of you, and one in front of her vacant place. “Gin?” You asked, she smirked and raised one eyebrow, “vodka” she replied in a voice laced with husk that made you cross your legs. A waiter approached to pull out her chair but she raised her palm to him to stop his movements, sternly yet politely. 

“You had me waiting”, you leant back in your seat and breathed out a laugh, “I’m sure there’s a saying about that” you quip and watch as her face twitches in amusement. Despite her threatening beauty, and undeniable palpable presence, you find yourself feeling at ease. Your palms are even dry. The conversation flows, you’re laughing a lot, and not by force, but genuine laughter. Before long, and after a few more martinis you ask her a question that seems to falter her. “So... Miss Romanoff?” Is all you say. She doesn’t react, but looks at you with smirked lips waiting for you to continue, which you find yourself doing. “It’s funny because I’m sure you said your last name was Rushman”. She intakes a slightly deeper breath, and leans forward on her forearms, giving you a ridiculous view of her cleavage. “ I don’t remember telling you that was my name, I remember telling you to give that name when calling to sort your friends station wagon, which you’re welcome for by the way” she finishes with a wink. “So what do I call you”, you ask, bemused. “Natasha will suffice, but don’t be afraid to use your imagination”. She reached across the table and places her hand on your cheek, making your breath hitch and your heart thump in your chest. She strokes the small cut on your forehead which you’ve tried to hide with your hair. “This has healed nicely” she murmurs, full attention acutely on said cut. “I was worried, such a pretty face to have a scar on”. You smile at her compliment, “some find facial scars rather dashing”, she nods in acknowledgement, fingers falling from your cheek to around your jaw, tips now grazing over you lips, “some do”. 

A large and sweaty palm hits your stomach with an echoing slap, you turn your head to this side in annoyance to look at the culprit to find them lazily smiling at you, their hair wet with sweat and lips covered in your smudged lipstick. “Fuck baby, that was fucking amazing” they slur, leaning into kiss your cheek, biting it lightly before moving away. You hum in response and try your best to smile. They push themselves up off the mattress and stumble over to your en suite bathroom, releasing a loud and obnoxious wolf howl before sniggering to themselves. You stay lying your back, picking at your nails and trying to not think about what just happened. You hear the metallic clang of your toilet bin lid pop, and the dense sound of something plopping in to it, cringing at the knowledge what that was. You make a mental not to empty that tomorrow. 

You sit up and move from your bed, rubbing your neck and stretching a little. You hear the chain flush from your toilet and roll your eyes, they didn’t even close the door. You reach out for your light switch flicking it on. Bright white light illuminates the room for less than a millisecond before a loud crack makes you jump and squeal in shock as the room returns to pitch black darkness. “What happened” boomed that deep, gruff and grating voice from the bathroom. “Fucking bulbs gone”, you call back. “You got another one? I can screw it in for you, if not I’ll get one from the hardware store on the corner before we leave for work tomorrow”. You sigh, so much you want to ignore from that sentence. “I’m sure I’ve got one, hang on”, you call as you grab your robe and make your way to the kitchen. You open the only draw you think of that might have one in there, she always called it your bits and bobs draw, filled with random screws, batteries both used and unused, tape, random utility bills of various dates, chargers you’ve long forgotten of what they charge, basically anything you find that you aren’t convinced enough is safe to throw away. “Ah hah!”, you cheer to no one in particular as you find what you’re looking for, you knew you had one somewhere. You pick up the box and something underneath it catches your eye. A neon green post-it note stuck to the bottom of the draw, creased and folded over. You pick it off, un-scrunching it. It reads, “155 W 51st St, Wednesday @8:30” In your shaky handwriting.

A vivid memory floods you, you pacing in your living room with her number in your hand, practicing your spiel to yourself over and over. You remember her voice in your ear, telling you she expected not to wait so long for you to call, you remember biting back that good things come to those who wait. You remember searching for a pen as she gives you an address, and a time and instruction of what to do when you get there. She tells you she’s looking forward to seeing you again, and you shakily say the same before she hangs up. Your knees wobble as tears sting your eyes. You crouch, one hand gripping the counter side still to stop you from toppling forward, and one hand now ball fisted against forehead with the old note inside. You try and compose yourself, try and calm your breathing and stop the tears from falling. You pour yourself a water and chug. You feel as if you’d just been ripped in two and hollowed out, empty yet crippled with pain. You dry your face using the arms of your robe, pick up the bulb box and make your way back to your bedroom. Your finger tips trail against the cold walls of your hallway, reminding yourself that you are in fact present, that numbed dull feeling between your legs reminded you that what just happen did actually just happen, and not with her, but with him. You’re met with the muscular, overtly masculine figure of your emotional distraction, still nude and holding the dead bulb in his large hand. He waves it and smiles, “one step ahead”. You hand him the new bulb and he unboxes it. “You been crying?”, “huh? What, no. I just did a really big yawn”, you lie with a laugh. He nods and puts the bulb back in the box and then launches himself onto your mattress, “this can wait till morning”, he call back to you as he makes himself comfortable on the side she always slept on, “pretty girls need their beauty sleep”. 

XXX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully you enjoyed this addition and it reads okay! Let me know what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoping to be more frequent with my uploads, emphasis on hoping. I am actually really enjoying writing this series and I hope you’re enjoying reading it! Let me know what you think!

To his credit, he kept his word. Not a soul. You remember sitting him down, on a park bench in the landscaped patch of green a block away from the place you both worked. You explained that it just wouldn’t happen again, and for real this time. Not like the time before when you had said that before it happened, or the time before that when you said it during it happening. Your head, your heart, your body, your soul, the freckles on your cheeks, the soles of your feet, the everything from the top of you to the bottom of you, and to the right and the left, just wasn’t in it. He asked you why, and what could you say to that? It’s not you, it’s me? I mean that wasn’t a lie, and sounded a hell of a lot better than, ‘sorry, I’m too emotionally invested in someone who is frequent in their infrequency and therefore unable to commit but we still kind of have this thing that’s been going on for well over a year and a half, it’s just I never really know when it’s on or when it’s off which isn’t really her fault but kind of also is, anyway - promise you won’t tell a anyone that we’ve been sleeping together please?’. You decided to just say you wasn’t ready for anything serious, and on the flip side you didn’t want the messiness of a casual relationship with a coworker. He shrugged and looked away from you, but eventually pulled you into a hug which you welcomed. You took his face in your hands and looked in to large, oval eyes and elucidated the fact that you truly didn’t want any one to know any of this happened. That’s when he promised you; not a soul. Since then you two have been in a good place, you expected hostility from him, but he’s been nothing but cordial. And to think, you thought you knew the Jeffrey’s of this world. You thought how wonderful it was to be proven wrong like that. 

That was all weeks behind you now, and the autumnal air was shifting. Bitter winds worked their way through the sky scrapers and the alleyways, chilling any exposed skin on your body to numbness. It was Friday, and you’d left work early, for no particular reason other than you had a half day of holiday that needed using up. You lied about plans to Karen and others to stop all their enquiries, when really all you were going to do was get home and bundle yourself in, watch some movies, read some books and recharge yourself. You made a stop at the corner shop closest to you apartment and picked up some provisions, fully determined to prepare enough to not have to leave your home for the entire weekend. 

As soon as the warm air of your apartment hits you, your frozen skin starts prickling. You take of your layers not caring much where they land, you’ll deal with that later. You head straight for you bathroom, turning on your shower and leaning against the side of the sink as you wait for the water the heat up. You turn your head to look over your left shoulder, watching as your face slowly begins to disappear as the mirror of your bathroom cabinet fogs up. Once you can no longer see your own features you remove the final articles of clothing still clinging to your body and step under the near boiling water. You stand there until the skin of your extremities are pruny, fading in and out of a conscious state between your memories and your day dreams. Both, naturally of her. You can’t work out if the feeling resonating in you stomach is of sadness or nostalgia. Either way, it’s turning and churning and distracting you from all the relaxing you’re supposed to be doing. You busy yourself for the rest of the evening, picking up your scattered belongings, tidying up your bedroom, eventually making dinner before you retire in front of you tv, clad in the fluffiest blanket you own. There was an old Movie on one of the channels you’d never seen before, about a man with a broken leg spying on his neighbours. The woman who stared along side him went on to become a real life princess through marriage, and you couldn’t help thinking how remarkable that was. 

The Buzzer of your door went making you jump. You weren’t expecting anyone. You paused the TV and clicked the screen of your phone which revealed the time being 10:24pm, and you racked your brain thinking who could be calling by at this time. You hadn’t had any texts or phone calls, and you’d expect some sort of warning at this time of the night. You move towards your window, keeping low to try and see if you can see anyone on the stoop. You can’t see anyone waiting by the door, or even anyone walking away in defeat. Everything looks normal. You return back to your position on the couch, just about to take the TV off the pause when three rapid, forceful knocks on your front door echo throughout your apartment making you physically gasp and pull your blanket up to your chin. You wait a few seconds but the knocks persist. 

Despite your better judgement, you get up and go towards the sound. By the time you get to your door you’ve convinced yourself it’s just one of your neighbours, maybe they collected a parcel for you earlier in the day... you having not ordered anything of recent being a very minor detail. You clear your throat, and swing your door wide open with feigned confidence. To your surprise, a woman stood before you who you’d never seen before. She was tall, slim but not weeny. More of an athletic build, if anything. She was dressed all in black, almost looking like gym-wear but more padded in places like her shoulders and around her thighs. Her face was stern, but her eyes were surprisingly kind. She was undoubtably beautiful, the kind of person who you’re sure gets double takes as she walks down the street. Her hair was dark, borderline black and pulled into a neat ponytail. She stood, legs slightly parted and arms behind her back, her taller frame meaning she was slightly looking downwards upon you. It was highly intimidating. 

You clear your throat again, hand coming to grasp tighter around blanket you’ve still got around you. “Can I...help you?”, you ask, eyeing her up still. “Y/n?” She asks simply, in a particularly feminine voice. You nod as a response and to your absolute horror, she pushes past you with speed and a rather forceful manner rendering you helpless to do anything other the stammer out syllables of protest. She moves behind you and pushes the door shut, your hand releasing its grip on it to not have your fingers slammed between the doorframe. You turn on your heels, speechless at her actions but your face hot with adrenaline, anger, and quite frankly fear. She sighs heavily and steps towards you. “I’m sorry about that, but I can’t risk anyone overhearing our conversation”, you shake you’re head to kick yourself out of your shock, “what the fuck do think you’re doing? Who are you?”, you hiss. 

“My name is Agent Maria Hill, and I’m afraid I have some news for you”.


	6. Chapter 6

“So ‘D’...comes before ‘C’...what kind of fucking order is that?” 

You’re standing in your living room, battered and tattered cardboard boxes surrounding your feet. A bare Plastic, Forrest green stem stood before you, mocking you with its barrenness. “You could just read the instructions...”. You turn towards the voice, staring down the figure clad in your loungewear, but she’s not paying attention. Her nose is practically touching the pages of the book she’s reading, written in a language that you don’t understand. “I don’t need instructions, nat. This is my Christmas tree, I’ve had this tree for 5 years okay? I know this tree, I just...you could help you know?”, “I can’t, I’m Jewish”. You snort in response, “you’re not Jewish” you state matter-of-factly, which is met with nothing but silence. “...Are you actually Jewish?”, “I am now”, you huff with a smile and skip to the arm chair she’s folded herself up into, snatching her book away from in front of her face. Her face goes stern but her eyes are playful. You fold the corner of the page she’s on, and watch her cringe at your actions before you slap the book shut, tossing it on to your sofa. “Now help me”. She begrudgingly rises to her feet, and comes to stand along side you. She bends and picks up one of the faux branches and slots it into place - the right place, first time. 

You release a whistle from your teeth, “wow, y’know you’re really good at this”. She nods, “or you’re really bad”. “No see I think it’s the former”, “well I know it’s the latter”. You sigh in an exaggerated manner, to which she openly rolls her eyes at. “No”, she says firmly, which you respond to with mock offence. “But I didn’t even say anything!”, “No, y/n I’m not doing it”, “do what? I didn’t even ask anything!” You say, unable to hid the playful smile breaking your composure. “I’m not putting up the tree for you”. Before she’s able to return to the arm chair you drape both arms around her neck, hanging all your weight off her, making her grab around your middle to relieve the strain on neck. “Off”, she grumbles, desperately trying to keep her lips in a straight line and teeth hidden, but you lift your legs making her stagger, “OFF”, she barks through cracks of laughter, her smile now beaming and eyes crinkled. You fall backwards, her on top of you, crashing into one of the boxes. Relief upon impact and giggles follow as the box explodes, contents only of tinsel. Neither of you can catch your breath, laughter coming out silent with your faces redding. In the 6 months you’ve know her you had seen her laugh, or course, but never so freely. Her face seemed younger, her eyes brighter, her body felt looser in your arms - less tense. You can’t remember yourself feeling happier. 

She rolled off of you, both of your breathing returning to normal, the occasional giggle still escaping as the two of you came down from your high. You laid in silence, the type of silence you can only have in trusted company. Both lost in your own thoughts, but comforted by each others presence. You turn to look at her, but her eyes are already on you. She reaches down for your hand, lacing her fingers in yours. She brings your hand to her lips and leaves a lingering kiss on the back of it, closing her eyes as she does so. She then kisses each of your fingers, before turning her head to look up at ceiling. You stare through hooded eyes at the now somber expression on her face and you can’t help but feel cheated. The first time you’ve felt this way. Cheated out of normality. Cheated out of the everyday, cheated out of the , ‘honey I’m home’. Cheated out of the stability, cheated out of the comfort of knowing what tomorrow will bring. Cheated out of the boring. 

She gets up, leaving you laying there, and steps over you. Without another word she picks up the next branch, and slots it in it’s place. 

“...and, with the affects yet being unknown, were unsure of how long she’ll be in this state for...Miss Y/L/N? Do you understand what I’m saying?”, you breath in sharply, the use of your last name bringing you back to attention. “Hm? No yes I...when do you think is an appropriate time to put up Christmas decorations?”. The woman, Maria hill she said her name was, looks visibly taken aback and almost appalled at your question. “Miss Y/L/N I know this is a lot to take in but I need to know that you’ve understood what I’ve told you...and definitely not yet, we haven’t even had thanksgiving”. You nod along to her words. “How did you get my address?”, she tilts her head slightly, then clears her throat. “Well you’re her emergency contact”, you schlump back into your seat as you digest what she’s told you. She carries on her explanation. “Unofficial, of course, I’m the only who knows...she wanted it off the records”. You stand, Maria mimicking your actions. “Um, so...what happens now, what’s the, what’s -“, “I have a car coming to collect us, they’ll be here whenever you say so, it’ll take us directly to the jet which will then take us to the location she’s being treated in. I can not disclose where, and until you’re in the building you’ll need to be blindfolded”. You gawk at her in response, and she sighs sympathetically. “I know it seems extreme, we know you’re not dangerous, we’ve done the background checks but you don’t have official clearance, so”. You nod again, beginning to feel like one of those bobbing head toys pensioners keep on the dashboards of their cars.

“Are you ready?”, “I am”. She proceeds to touch her ear, and speak in code out into the open. She then walks towards your front door, you following, grabbing your coat from the back of your chair as you do so. She opens your front door and walks out, you grab the handle as you walk through to close it behind you. As soon as the latch clicks your breathing quickens. Sudden panic throbbing through your body as you begin to tremble. Tears prickling your eyes as the emotions of fear and dread and guilt swirl in your stomach. 

You turn to Maria - a stranger to you, knowing she can’t promise you her wellbeing, but you still find yourself searching for comfort in her. She grabs the keys from your hands and locks the door on your behalf, he face emotionless to your change in demeanour. She then pulls you by your elbow, supporting you down the flights of stairs in hurried a manner. As you exit your complex you feel her eyes on you briefly. Once you’ve reached the car - a blacked out jeep, she opens the door of the back passenger side for you, supporting your your lower back as you shakily climb in. She stands watching as you strap yourself in. Once you’d stopped fiddling with the belt across your chest, she goes to close the door, pausing midway. You look at her inquisitively but she has her head turned sideways, looking ahead. “She’s the strongest I know”, she says barely audible, as if she’s not even speaking to you. She then clears her throat, straightens her back and slams the door shut.


End file.
